The Boleyn Inheritance Read online

  In only a few moments, Amelia opens the door. “You’re to go to Mother’s rooms,” she says triumphantly.

  “Tell her I’m ill. You should have said I’ve gone to bed.”

  “I told her. She said you have to get up and put on a cloak and go. What have you done now?”

  I scowl at her bright face. “Nothing.” I rise unwillingly from the bed. “Nothing. As always, I have done nothing.” I pull my cloak from the hook behind the door and tie the ribbons from chin to knee.

  “Did you answer him back?” Amelia demands gleefully. “Why do you always argue with him?”

  I go out without replying, through the silenced chamber and down the steps to my mother’s rooms in the same tower on the floor below us.

  At first it looks as if she is alone, but then I see the half-closed door to her privy chamber and I don’t need to hear him, and I don’t need to see him. I just know that he is there, watching.

  She has her back to me at first, and when she turns I see she has the birch stick in her hand and her face is stern.

  “I have done nothing,” I say at once.

  She sighs irritably. “Child, is that any way to come into a room?”

  I lower my head. “My lady mother,” I say quietly.

  “I am displeased with you,” she says.

  I look up. “I am sorry for that. How have I offended?”

  “You have been called to a holy duty; you must lead your husband to the reformed church.”

  I nod.

  “You have been called to a position of great honor and great dignity, and you must forge your behavior to deserve it.”

  Inarguable. I lower my head again.

  “You have an unruly spirit,” she goes on.

  True indeed.

  “You lack the proper traits of a woman: submission, obedience, love of duty.”

  True again.

  “And I fear that you have a wanton streak in you,” she says, very low.

  “Mother, that I have not,” I say as quietly as her. “That is not true.”

  “You do. The King of England will not tolerate a wanton wife. The Queen of England must be a woman without a stain on her character. She must be above reproach.”

  “My lady mother, I-”

  “Anne, think of this!” she says, and for once I hear a real ring of earnestness in her voice. “Think of this! He had the Lady Anne Boleyn executed for infidelity, accusing her of sin with half the court, her own brother among her lovers. He made her queen, and then he unmade her again with no cause or evidence but his own will. He accused her of incest, witchcraft, crimes most foul. He is a man most anxious for his reputation, madly anxious. The next Queen of England must never be doubted. We cannot guarantee your safety if there is one word said against you!”

  “My lady-”

  “Kiss the rod,” she says before I can argue.

  I touch my lips to the stick as she holds it out to me. Behind her privy chamber door I can hear him slightly, very slightly, sigh.

  “Hold the seat of the chair,” she orders.

  I bend over and grip both sides of the chair. Delicately, like a lady lifting a handkerchief, she takes the hem of my cloak and raises it over my hips and then my night shift. My buttocks are naked; if my brother chooses to look through the half-open door, he can see me, displayed like a girl in a bawdy house. There is a whistle of the rod through the air and then the sudden whiplash of pain across my thighs. I cry out, and then bite my lip. I am desperate to know how many cuts I will have to take. I grit my teeth together and wait for the next. The hiss through the air and then the slice of pain, like a sword cut in a dishonorable duel. Two. The sound of the next comes too fast for me to make ready, and I cry out again, my tears suddenly coming hot and fast like blood.

  “Stand up, Anne,” she says coolly, and pulls down my shift and my cloak.

  The tears are pouring down my face; I can hear myself sobbing like a child.

  “Go to your room and read the Bible,” she says. “Think especially on your royal calling. Caesar’s wife, Anne. Caesar’s wife.”

  I have to curtsy to her. The awkward movement causes a wave of new pain, and I whimper like a whipped puppy. I go to the door and open it. The wind blows the door from my hand, and, in the gust, the inner door to her privy chamber flies open without warning. In the shadow stands my brother, his face strained as if it were him beneath the whip of the birch, his lips pressed tightly together as if to stop himself from calling out. For one awful moment our eyes meet and he looks at me, his face filled with a desperate need. I drop my eyes; I turn from him as if I have not seen him, as if I am blind to him. Whatever he wants of me, I know that I don’t want to hear it. I stumble from the room, my shift sticking to the blood on the backs of my thighs. I am desperate to get away from them both.

  Katherine, Norfolk House, Lambeth,

  November 1539

  “I shall call you wife.”

  “I shall call you husband.”

  It is so dark that I cannot see him smile; but I feel the curve of his lips as he kisses me again.

  “I shall buy you a ring and you can wear it on a chain around your neck and keep it hidden.”

  “I shall give you a velvet cap embroidered with pearls.”

  He chuckles.

  “For God’s sake be quiet, and let us get some sleep!” someone says crossly from elsewhere in the dormitory. It is probably Joan Bulmer, missing these very same kisses that I now have on my lips, on my eyelids, on my ears, on my neck, on my breasts, on every part of my body. She will be missing the lover who used to be hers, and who now is mine.

  “Shall I go and kiss her good night?” he whispers.

  “Ssshhh,” I reprove him, and I stop his reply with my own mouth.

  We are in the sleepy aftermath of lovemaking, the sheets tangled around us, clothes and linen all bundled together, the scent of his hair, of his body, of his sweat all over me. Francis Dereham is mine as I swore he would be.

  “You know that if we promise to marry before God and I give you a ring, then it is as much a marriage as if we were wed in church?” he asks earnestly.

  I am falling asleep. His hand is caressing my belly. I feel myself stir and sigh, and I open my legs to invite his warm touch again.

  “Yes,” I say, meaning yes to his touch.

  He misunderstands me; he is always so earnest. “So shall we do it? Shall we marry in secret and always be together, and when I have made my fortune, we can tell everyone, and live together as man and wife?”

  “Yes, yes.” I am starting to moan a little from pleasure. I am thinking of nothing but the movement of his clever fingers. “Oh, yes.”

  In the morning he has to snatch his clothes and run, before my lady grandmother’s maid comes with much hustle and ceremony to unlock the door to our bedchamber. He dashes away just moments before we hear her heavy footstep on the stairs, but Edward Wald-grave leaves it too late and has to roll under Mary’s bed and hope the trailing sheets will hide him.

  “You’re merry this morning,” Mrs. Franks says suspiciously as we smother our giggles. “Laugh before seven, tears before eleven.”

  “That is a pagan superstition,” says Mary Lascelles, who is always pious. “And there is nothing for these girls to laugh about if they considered their consciences.”

  We look as somber as we can, and follow her down the stairs to the chapel for Mass. Francis is in the chapel, on his knees, as handsome as an angel. He looks across at me, and my heart turns over. It is so wonderful that he is in love with me.

  When the service is done and everyone is in a hurry for their breakfast, I pause in the pew to adjust the ribbons on my shoe and I see that he has dropped back to his knees as if deep in prayer. The priest slowly blows out the candles, packs up his things, waddles down the aisle; and we are alone.

  Francis comes across to me and holds out his hand. It is a most wonderfully solemn moment, it is as good as a play. I wish I could see us, especially my own seriou